


Before She was Grey

by dragonswithjetpacks



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Beatrice Cousland, Cousland family - Freeform, Gen, cousland origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonswithjetpacks/pseuds/dragonswithjetpacks
Summary: Before Duncan came to Highever, Beatrice Cousland was a daughter. A sister. An aunt. She had gained a title. A reputation. A love interest. It was a time that seemed so long ago, a time before she took the oath of a Grey Warden.





	1. Payback

_Her first memory was of racing through rows of green. It was the courtyard of her family manor, the small buds of flowers blooming in late spring. And it was because of those light pink blossoms that told her summer was approaching. She could see the back of her brother, a few years older than her, his dark hair shining in the mid-day sun. In his hands she could see a wooden sword. The very same as the one she brandished herself. The only difference was that young Fergus was strong enough to hold his false sword upright. At the time, poor young Beatrice did not have the strength. She drug her one handed long sword behind her. And as she stood back to watch her brother practice battle, she struggled to wield her own weapon. Tears formed in her eyes as she realized she could not keep up with him. But before she could cry out, two hands lifted her from the ground. She looked into the eyes of her father who comforted her with a loving smile._

_“Don’t worry, pup,” he said, kissing her lightly on her temple. “You don’t need a sword to be a hero.”_

* * *

 

“Beatrice,” Nan shouted through the cracked door. “Your brother is calling for you. Get up.”

Her head jerked upward, but her eyes remained closed. Taking one arm from underneath her pillow, she wiped the side of her face. She had been drooling again. It must have been a decent dream for her to sleep so well. The past few nights had been the same. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she was gone. She fell into a deep sleep and often slept in past dawn. This was the third time Nan had to wake her.

“I’ll be there in a minert…” she grumbled, still feeling the weight of her bed pulling on her.

“Fergus expects you to meet him in the courtyard as soon as possible,” she rushed through the doors, a sheet in her hands. “Now up, up. Let me change your linens.”

Very slowly, she rolled to the edge of her bed. She forced herself upward and let her legs dangle as her eyes adjusted to the light in the room. Her curtains were not even drawn yet, which was surprising since that was the first thing Nan had normally done to get her out of bed. Her eye lids were heavy and it took several times of rubbing them before she finally felt awake enough to fully open them.

“Tsk,” Nan rolled her eyes as she sat the sheets down on a chair. “Just look at you. You are a mess.”

Before she could even touch the young girl, she threw hands upward in quick response. Beatrice continued her grumbling, not making a full sentence, let alone words, at all. Through groans and a continuous shooing motion, Nan backed away and watched as Bea stood upward swaying only once before walking to her wardrobe.

“What does Fergus want, anyway?” she finally managed to say while pulling out a corset and leather tunic.

“Not sure,” Nan replied. “He’s drug the targets out of the armory, though.”

“You don’t say?” Beatrice’s voice suddenly perked up. “I should hurry, then.” 

* * *

 It was her beauty that could be admired from afar. It was her eyes that had him completely mesmerized. It was her hair that fell past her shoulders that billowed lightly in the wind. And it was his charm that would convince her to be his. Fergus looked over his shoulder to his young guest who sat patiently and ever so gracefully on a bench.

“Sometimes you can’t just rely on your sight to land an arrow. You have to actually feel it fly. Guide it,” he called back to her before pulling back the string. “You have to be confident that you will make your mark.”

He took a deep breath. Even though everything he had just said to his potential interest was a crock, he had to believe some of it was true. He calculated the wind, lined his sight, and relaxed. But the whistling noise he heard next was not from his arrow. And the sound of the arrow making a thud into the center of the target was not because he let it loose. The bow was still back. And the arrow was still set. With a sigh, he withdrew his bow. It was her smugness that he could see from afar. And he was not pleased.

“Good morning,” Beatrice waved from behind his interest with a wicked smirk planted across her face. Fergus snarled at her, both annoyed and embarrassed his little sister could best him not only from a further distance, but a quicker rate. The young woman, however, looked up with dumbfounded adoration in her eyes.

“Well done, my lady,” she clapped her hands excitedly together, her curls bouncing as wildly as her breasts.

“Thank you, my dear,” Beatrice gave a low bow. “It was nothing at all. You should see how my brother fairs the same.”

“Indeed,” Fergus grumbled from a distance.

“I’ll pull my arrow,” Beatrice’s smile faded after catching his glare.

“Must you always do this,” Fergus snapped at her with a low growl as she walked by.

“Consider it pay back for embarrassing me in front of Sir Gilmore.”

“Alright,” Fergus shrugged following his sister back to the target. “Bloody good shot, though.”

She pulled the arrow out with a single tug. “I know,” she grinned while checking the tip for damage. “Care for a game?”

“First one to spell horse, then?”

“Only if you’re prepared to lose.”

“I _will_ win one of these days.”

“Not today, dear brother… not today.”


	2. Sibling Rivalries

"You couldn't let me have the day. Not even for the sake of a lady," Fergus sighed following his sister into the dining hall.

"Not a chance," she laughed loudly while spinning on her heels to face him.

"Was my outburst with Sir Gilmore so outlandish that you seek such vengeance?"

"Oh, dear brother. Has it not become clear to you?" she said while walking backwards. "An eye for an eye, if you will."

It did make perfect sense when he truly thought about it. He had interrupted a moment between his sister and Sir Gilmore, a knight she had fancied the moment she first caught gaze of him as he was given a title by her father. It was a moment that seemed very... intimate. A moment when they appeared to be alone. And now, she had humiliated him in a very similar manor. There was no lie that many in the keep had noticed their rendezvous and although rumors seemed to spread fast in the keep, not a word was said about the two. And Fergus was foolish in thinking his childish acts to amuse himself would not have consequences.

"Still," he said boldly, "I am at the age where I need to-"

"Don't start this excuse again," Beatrice rolled her eyes as she turned back around, looking for her place at the dining table. "The last time this happened was not entirely my fault."

"No... but... you could pay a bit more attention to the young women at the keep."

"Yes. I agree. The women visiting the keep should be number one priority. I completely understand, now."

At that moment their father, Bryce Cousland, Teryain of Highever, had entered the room. He was listening to their conversation and made out the bulk of it just as he neared the table.

"Did she beat you at archery again?" he grinned as he pulled out his chair.

"She did," Fergus admitted. "But not before taking my dignitity along with it."

"Honestly, father, he deserved it."

"Pup," he said softly. "You shouldn't be so hard on your brother."

"Then you should tell him to stop giving sappy speeches about the arrow 'finding it's way' and start impressing women with the blade of his sword instead," she shot a daring glance across the table to her older brother.

"Ah," Bryce nodded. "I see sibling rivalry has taken a serious turn."

"Which I wish it had not," Eleanor Cousland said, entering the room behind her husband.

The grace in the Couslands family rested upon her shoulders. She walked with such elegance, there was no mistaking her for a proper lady. Her hands were folded, even when she walked. Her dress was hardly wrinkled, even though she had been wearing it all day. Her hair was still perfectly braided. And her makeup looked as if she had just painted it on just moments before. And even upon observing her in such a state, there was no mistaking that she would draw a dagger from her side to slit your throat. Her children did not know any better, however. And they simply sought her out for comfort and called her mother.

"I do expect grandchildren... very soon," she added with a raised brow.

"I told you," Fergus shot Beatrice a glance from a across the table.

"Fair enough," Beatrice admitted. "But... that tart on the bench was not good enough for you."

"She was a beautiful woman from a noble family. I can't see how that isn't god enough," he retorted.

"I know you, Fergus," she pointed at him. "You would have been bored with her within a week. It is going to take much more than a pretty face and a handful of gold to appease you."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"Alright, that is enough," Eleanor finally interrupted them, still standing as she took her place next to Bryce. "You two are going to give me a headache before night falls. Let us have a nice dinner without arguing."

"Of course, mother," Beatrice sat up in her chair. "I didn't mean to cause you any distress."

"We were only teasing," Fergus joined. "No harm done."

"Good," Eleanor stated, taking her seat at the table.

All remained quiet as they waited for Lady Cousland to situate herself at the table. The silence was broken by the clinked of silverware against the plates. Beatrice, at the far end of the table, shot Fergus a warning glance. He, in response, stuck his tongue out so childishly she could not help but giggle. Bryce smirked beneath his venison. And as much as Eleanor tried to ignore her family, she, too, chuckled to herself.


	3. Not the Flowers

"Alright," she said, still catching her breath while twirling two daggers in each hand. "You've got a bit of an advantage."

"As good as it is to hear you say that," Fergus panted, "admitting your opponent is better isn't going to get you anywhere."

"So what do I do?" Fergus thought but did not let his guard down.

His shield still remained upright and sword firm in his dominant hand. Beatrice ran her thumb back and forth on her handles as she waited. He shook his. "

You'll have to be quicker."

"Quicker?" she straightened herself. "What am I supposed to do? You've got a sodding shield."

"Exactly," he hissed and pointed a sword in her direction. "You're defenseless. I could knock you down easily with my shield and behead you all within a few seconds. Now arms up, little sister. Lest I best you once again."

She rolled her shoulders back. "Fine."

Those who resided within the keep at Highever were quite used to the sibling rivalry between Beatrice and Fergus Cousland. If they weren't, they would soon learn. A day would not go by when they weren't testing one another. It had been several years since they started their training. Fergus had taken a wife. Beatrice was a renowned marksman, regardless of whether or not she had fought a battle before. Even the soldiers swore she could hit a mark from 100 yards away. Sir Gilmore being among them. There was a bright future for both of the Cousland children. Fergus would take Highever. And as much as Eleanor pleaded Beatrice to marry into a wealthy family to unite houses, she knew her daughter well enough to know she would refuse to her last dying breath. It was no mystery that Beatrice and Gilmore had their eyes set on one another the moment they met. Even though, their romance had yet to blossom.

"Can I ask you something?" Fergus said, stepping back to lighten the pace.

"If it's about flowers again then no. I don't know anything about flowers.

"No, no," he shook his head. "Nothing like that."

Beatrice relaxed as well, seeing her brother let his down guard completely. "What is it?" she questioned.

"It's about Orianna."

"That's what the flowers were about when you asked the first time."

Fergus sighed. Though, his annoyance was really his own fault as he knew how impatient his sister was.

"She's feeling rather... sick of late. And I want to do something for her."

Beatrice raised her brow. "You're sure this isn't about flowers?"

"For Maker's sake," he grumbled, stepping closer to tighten the gap between them. "Orianna... she's... well... she's with child."

It should have been more of a surprise than it really was. Then again, Beatrice was never good with surprises. She blinked. Looked about her to examine her surroundings in order to assure no one else was looking. Leaned forward, looked Fergus in his eyes and with a concerned expression whispered,

"I don't think there is any flower that can help you with that."

"One of these days there is going to be a strike of lighting with your name on it. And below it will read 'Sincerely Yours, Andraste and the Maker himself'. I want you to know that."

Beatrice laughed out loud before he could even finish his sentence. She sheathed both her daggers knowing full well their sparring match was over. She wiped the sweat above her upper lip and went to withdraw the ribbon from her hair.

"In all seriousness," she began.

"Because we both know you can be serious," Fergus interrupted.

"Really though," she snorted, "you should do something nice for her. Something that makes her feel good. A shoulder rub, perhaps? Maker knows I need one."

"Yes, well. At least your upfront enough to ask for one. From a particular person."

"You can stop there, thank you," she pointed at him with a glare. "Some women aren't used to being so straight forward. Sometimes you just have to guess at what they want. Take a hint every once and a while. Actually listen to her when she speaks."

"But I do listen," he retorted before she scoffed. "I do love her accent when she speaks. It's hard not to listen."

"It's one thing to hear her. But to actually listen..."

"Alright, alright," he wave his hand. "I'll start with the shoulders. I'm sure I can manage from there."


End file.
